A Voice for Justice
by IcyWaters
Summary: The Lone Ranger comes to terms with his destiny and says goodbye to his brother.


Disclaimer: This story is based on Walt Disney Pictures' _The Lone Ranger_. The Lone Ranger and related characters belong to DreamWorks Classics (formerly Classic Media). In short: I don't own it. If I did, there would be a sequel.

Author's Note: I recently watched Disney's _The Lone Ranger_ for the first time and found it thoroughly entertaining. I had more fun in those two and a half hours than I've had watching a movie in a long time. I want to kick myself for not catching it in a theater.

This story takes place after the spectacular train finale and leads into the second Promontory Summit ceremony. It struck me how John Reid, before even arriving in Colby, was thrust into a series of events that would forever change his life. Moreover, it all transpired in a matter of days. Now that the dust has settled, the Lone Ranger grieves the loss of his brother.

While this is obviously for the 2013 film, I hope fans of other Lone Ranger incarnations will find something to like. Now to those thrilling days of yesteryear...

* * *

**A Voice for Justice**

by  
IcyWaters

"Give me your hand. John, give me your hand!"

Dan Reid leaned forward, his arm extended as far as it would go. John struggled against the throbbing in his leg and the searing heat in his shoulder to reach for the lifeline. Sharp cracks pierced the air, one after another. Dan's body jolted from the impact of bullets lodging in his chest.

"No!" He watched helpless as his brother fell from the saddle.

"No," John Reid gasped, bolting upright. Sweat dripped from his brow. Now wide-awake, he kicked his legs free of the tangled blanket. In an effort to calm his erratic breathing, he ran shaky hands over his face, pushing back the damp hair stuck to his forehead.

His eyes focused on the embers in the campfire. On the far side, in the gentle moonlight, he saw the unfurled bedroll deserted. John surveyed the site, but there was no sign of Tonto. The paint horse was tethered to a branch near a small lake, so the Indian couldn't have wandered far. For what purpose, John didn't have the faintest idea. He doubted even the Great Father could figure out his Comanche friend.

Still unnerved by the nightmare, John scrambled to his feet. A light breeze sliced through his perspiration soaked shirt, sending a chill along his spine, so he grabbed the black jacket draped on top of his gear. He paced aimlessly about, finally settling on a fallen log closer to the lake.

Dan Reid was dead. Gunned down in an ambush trying to save his kid brother, his heart carved from his chest by that monster Butch Cavendish. John cupped his head in his hands. He should be dead, too.

That's when he noticed he was still trembling. Not from the crisp desert air, but from the reality of what happened. Since that ill-fated day in Bryant's Gap, it had been a non-stop endeavor to save Rebecca and Danny and to bring Cavendish to justice. Now he had to face the cold hard truth: The big brother he idolized was dead and never coming back.

What hurt most was how larger than life Captain Dan Reid, who always saved the day, failed.

John needed something—anything—to keep his mind off the subject. His fingers traced along the leather holster on his right hip to the ivory grip of the Colt .45. Cleaning his revolvers probably wasn't the best option in his current state of mind. He fidgeted with the lapels on his jacket. Before he knew it, he was holding the Texas Ranger badge that had belonged to their father.

He rubbed a thumb over the engraving and sighed.

Dan's dying words echoed in his ears. _"You shouldn't have come back, John."_

A coyote howl stirred him from his reverie. He looked out at the vast surroundings. Clear skies permitted the moon to bathe the desert in a soft shimmer. Mesas rose above the valley. Majestic mountains reigned in the distance. In a few hours, the sun would begin its ascent, painting the landscape in hues artists spent a lifetime striving to capture on canvas.

While John debated with himself on whether returning to Colby was the right decision, he knew this was home. He was meant to be here. If he stayed with the law practice in Boston, Cavendish would still have escaped. Dan and his Rangers would doggedly purse him, with or without the new county prosecutor in tow.

And Cavendish would undoubtedly have killed Tonto had he not barged into the prison car when he did.

Tonto.

Tonto believed it was fate for the idealistic lawyer to survive. Even Dan teased him the beautiful white stallion was a spirit horse waiting to take him to the other side. John wasn't convinced, but maybe this was fate.

So what exactly was he supposed to do next?

Soft footsteps sounded from behind. "If you are going to sneak up on a white man—"

"It takes no effort to sneak up on a white man," Tonto said. A thin blanket was draped around his bare shoulders. "The effort comes in making enough noise so that he will hear." He lowered his body onto the log.

John smiled at the familiarity of the banter. In the few days he had known the peculiar Comanche, he had grown rather fond of the man. They shared a common goal—bring Butch Cavendish to justice—but their definitions of justice didn't necessarily align. Despite their differences, Tonto proved to be a genuine friend, the type of friend John didn't encounter back East.

Tonto offered birdseed to the stuffed crow atop his head. When he finished, he held out a hand. A strip of black fabric dangled in the moonlight. "Never take off the mask, Kemosabe."

"It's over, Tonto. Butch Cavendish and Latham Cole are dead." John took the mask fashioned from Dan's vest. Eyeholes cut from the bullets that killed him stared at the young lawyer. "I'm still not clear on how we survived."

"Great Father mystified, too."

John arched an eyebrow. "What happened to me being the spirit walker, a man who cannot be killed?"

"Being crushed by train may not be the same as being killed in battle. Very tricky. My ancestors did not foresee iron horses."

John mounted no argument there.

"There is still the rest of Cavendish's gang to capture."

"Which is why there is no reason to wear the mask," John replied, too exhausted to question Tonto's sudden interest in Cavendish's cohorts.

"They did not see your face, Kemosabe."

"Wendell knows who I am."

Tonto produced a knife. The moon glistened off the carefully honed blade. "I will make trade."

"No, we are not murderers."

Tonto sighed and returned the knife to its sheath. "Weasel will not have courage to face you. If he is wise, he will hide deep in a cave. Cavendish's men might think he know location of more silver."

"What about the soldiers who marched me before the firing squad?"

"It was dark, Kemosabe. No one took notice of your features." The corner of Tonto's lip twitched when he met John's gaze. "All white men look alike."

John considered his friend's words. Captain Fuller ordered his men to escort the prisoner to his execution, never mentioning him by name. The soldiers paid the condemned man little heed, securing his wrists and fastening the blindfold with habitual precision. Railroad workers clearing the mangled train cars discovered Fuller's body amongst the wreckage.

The mask suddenly felt heavy in John's palm. After narrowly escaping the firing squad, he told Tonto that with men like Cole representing the law, he would rather be an outlaw. Did he mean it? Could he give up being a lawyer and his dream of bringing justice to the West after working so hard to reach his goal?

"You were right, Tonto. Cavendish and Cole were wendigos. They embodied evil." Silence settled over the two men, broken only when John asked the question he didn't know he had the courage to ask, fearing the answer to be no. "Did you ever find peace?"

"I had twenty-six years to find peace, Kemosabe. You have had mere days. It will come."

"I… I wanted to bring Cavendish in alive. It's the reason I rode with Dan. Vengeance consumed him. I didn't want him doing something he would later regret." John swallowed hard. "The same vengeance took hold of me. When Cavendish and I were on top of the _Jupiter_, I was going to shoot him. Not to disarm him, not in self-defense, but to flat out kill him."

"Why did you not?"

John snorted, resting his elbows on his knees. "I ran out of bullets." He didn't reveal how he was grateful of that fact.

"You did take him in alive, Kemosabe. Back of my head shares imprint of shovel with bird's ass to prove it."

"Look how that turned out." John cleared his throat. "About the shovel, I'm sorry. It's just that—"

"You had a vision."

"Yes," John said, raising his head. "How did you know? Never mind. Let me guess: The spirit horse told you." He glanced over his shoulder. The white stallion stood at the edge of the lake, hooves seemingly on top of the water, nose held high, staring at the two men as if he could see their very souls. Something was definitely not right with that animal.

Tonto nodded as if reading his mind.

"When I picked up the silver at Miss Red's, I saw Cavendish wiping Dan's blood from his mouth after he—" John couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. _Cut out and ate my brother's heart._

"Then I saw myself, wiping blood from my mouth, the same as Cavendish. When I lashed out at him with the butt of the revolver, I looked down to see his blood on my hands. It was the vision coming true. I didn't want to become him," John whispered.

"You are not a wendigo, Kemosabe. You and Cavendish are not the same. That is why fate ensured you had an empty gun. Spirit Horse cannot be so stupid as to choose man who runs out of bullets."

John ignored the quip, concentrating on that word again. Fate. "What will you do now, Tonto?"

"That depends on you."

"Me?" John shook his head. "I haven't the faintest idea what the future holds for me. There are Comanche in Indian Territory. You don't have to be a band apart anymore."

"No, Kemosabe. I am alone. I can never be one of their tribe again." Tonto turned to him, the white face paint glowing unnaturally in the darkness. "Does John Reid have a tribe?"

The simple question startled John, even though it was a constant presence in the back of his mind. Did he have a life to return to?

_"You have nothing. Like me."_

"The State of Texas appointed me district attorney. I suppose I'll go back to Colby and carry out the job to the best of my ability. I went to law school because I wanted to bring justice to the West, to give a voice to people who don't have one or are afraid to use it. Every American has the fundamental right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I'll stand up to men who try to buy favor with the law and bend it to their own whims."

"And be marked for early death by those like Cole. You can be the voice for those who have none, Kemosabe, but do it wisely. The mask will protect you."

"Why me, Tonto?"

"It is your destiny. Reids are great warriors."

"How can you say that? Dan failed. I failed."

"No, Kemosabe. Dan Reid earned the respect of the Comanche. He died attempting to avert a war. You proved the Comanche did not break the treaty and saved girl. That is not failure."

"We didn't stop the army from massacring all of Chief Big Bear's braves."

"Yet you did not give up, Kemosabe. That is the mark of a great warrior. Not all battles can be won."

"I'm not a great warrior, Tonto. You said it yourself. I'm the wrong brother."

"Dan may have been the easier choice, but you are not the wrong brother."

The praise caught John by surprise. He took advantage of Tonto's rare show of compassion to sate his curiosity. "Before Red Knee hauled me from Chief Big Bear's tepee, I asked the elders about kemosabe. No one knew what it meant. They agreed it was not a Comanche word."

"It is Potawatomi."

"Tonto, what does it really mean?"

"My father was Comanche, my mother Potawatomi. She taught me the ways of her ancestors." Tonto emitted a faint grunt. "Ancestors must have quarreled often. My mother and grandfather never saw eye to eye."

Bracing himself for the worst—after all, everything else Tonto advised him on had the Comanche in laughter—John asked, "Is this the grandfather who spoke to animals?"

"He was a wise man, Kemosabe. Like you, he understood justice is not what a man must take for himself." Tonto gazed at the stars in the sky, affecting the same the look of dubious innocence he wore when they were buried neck deep in the earth.

Just when John though he would never receive an answer, Tonto turned his head. "My mother said it means 'trusty scout' while my grandfather insisted 'faithful friend.'"

John smiled. "Thank you."

"Fair trade for me telling Spirit Horse you are wet brain."

"Wait," John said, blinking hard. "When did you call me a wet brain? Forget it. Fair trade." He spread the mask between both hands. Was this his future? A masked man righting wrongs…

"Before you make a decision, Kemosabe, must say goodbye to your brother. Bird insists."

* * *

Bryant's Gap loomed large in front of the two riders. The Lone Ranger slowed his white stallion to a halt at the mouth of the canyon. Tonto continued ahead for a few more yards before stopping to feed his crow. The Texas Rangers huddled in the exact spot during the relentless pursuit of Cavendish to gauge the situation.

This was where Dan made a fatal mistake, sending Collins in solo to scout tracks. How could a man who had known the Reid boys since they were kids lead them into an ambush? Align with a monster like Cavendish who ate human flesh? Did his thirst for booze really mean more to him than the lives of his friends?

In spite of everything, the Ranger could not find it within himself to stay angry. Rebecca related how a haunted Collins gave them a chance to escape. Danny witnessed Cole killing Collins. The old tracker paid for his sins.

Tonto pressed forward and the Ranger followed. Craggy sandstone walls jutted high into the blue skies above. Warm sun bathed the earth at the bottom, but not without spawning countless shadows amid the rocky crevices. An eerie silence enveloped them; not so much as a bird's chirp or the scampering of desert critters echoed. They were approaching hallowed grounds deep within the canyon.

In the stillness, the thunder of gunfire from that day rumbled in the Ranger's ears. His heart pounded in his chest. Hair on the nape of his neck stood on end. Blue eyes scanned the ridges and shadows alert for any sign of movement. He hated the feeling of vulnerability the canyon provoked.

They came to the scraggly tree Dan pushed out of his path seconds before the shooting began. Next, they passed the location where a searing pain had torn through the younger Reid's shoulder, causing him to yank on the reins, the horse falling and pinning him to the ground. Dan came back for him.

The Lone Ranger swallowed the lump in his throat.

Tonto dismounted when they reached the line of seven graves, each marked with a simple wood cross. He pointed out John Reid's empty plot on the end. Then he moved to the mound in the middle, the final resting place of Dan Reid. Tonto, without another word, nodded and led the paint horse away, allowing his friend to grieve in private.

Numb, the Ranger remained glued to the saddle for what seemed an eternity, staring unseeing at the burials. Finally, he forced his body to dismount and advanced closer. He didn't ask Tonto which Rangers occupied the other graves, but his eyes flitted between those five crosses.

Navarro grew up with them, his family owing the neighboring ranch. Clayton arrived in Colby a little more than a year before he left for Harvard and, becoming fast friends with Dan, wasted no time joining the Rangers. He only knew Blaine, Hollis and Martin from those couple of days they rode together, but they were Dan's family as much as Rebecca and Danny. All served in the same unit during the war, watching each other's backs, ensuring they all made it home alive.

Sadness washed over the Ranger. The five men knew his brother better than he did.

"How did we grow so far apart, Dan? As kids, we were inseparable. You couldn't shake me anymore than you could shake your own shadow. We rode everywhere together, fished, swam and climbed trees, even explored caves for hidden treasure."

The Ranger removed his white hat and crouched in front of the mound of dirt. As he brushed gloved fingers over the brim, he recalled Dan's teasing. _"That's a nice hat, by the way. Didn't have a bigger one?"_

"We hadn't seen each other for nine years when you found me on top of a runaway train, chained to an Indian wearing a dead bird on his head, and all you could say was nice suit. You know what's funny: That's exactly what I expected to hear when I stepped off the train in Colby."

Colby. Danny hugging his daddy for the last time.

"The slingshot you gave Danny brought back memories of you teaching me to bag squirrels. There were all those roping and riding tricks you taught me so I could show off for Dad. It's amazing how natural it felt after all this time. Just like when we did it for Dad. I don't think I ever saw him happier than when he was watching us, even when we were rolling around in the dirt, fighting."

He rubbed his jaw where Dan socked him good that time. The spirit horse nudged him to the ground. "It was a lucky jab," he said, adjusting his position and pushing the stallion's nose away. The horse snorted.

"I rarely heard from you after I left for school. Rebecca used to keep in touch and tell me what you were up to, but she stopped writing after you two married. The only time you ever wrote was to tell me about Danny and that you made it through the war without getting killed. I used to wish you'd come to Boston, visit my law office and maybe even watch me argue a case in court."

A heavy sigh escaped his lips.

"It's my fault, too. I should have come home for the wedding and after Danny was born. He's a fine boy, Dan. You'd be proud of how he handled himself these past few days."

Looking back, there was a lot he would do differently. They began drifting apart before he made the decision to attend Harvard, before they both became sweet on Rebecca, when Dan joined the Texas Rangers while he buried his nose in schoolbooks.

"Always wondered if you were disappointed to have a lawyer for a kid brother instead of a Ranger riding by your side. Dad understood, though. At least I hope he did. He sensed the unrest, realized the world was changing. He wanted us to work together, use our combined talents to make Texas safer for everyone. The main reason I sought the position of district attorney is because I dreamed of the day you'd capture the outlaws and I'd prosecute them."

It was a dream that died in Bryant's Gap.

"Cavendish and Cole won't be hurting anyone again. I didn't handle it like the great Dan Reid. I robbed a bank, blew up a bridge, ruined a prestigious ceremony and wrecked more than a few train cars, but it's over. Even started wearing guns again. Not exactly what you'd expect from your morally upright brother who failed to grasp Miss Red's establishment was—" he cleared his throat, "—more than a place for dancing."

The Ranger's blush faded, replaced by a grin. "Did it all in a mask and fancy suit, too." Gloved fingers brushed the leather hugging the contours of his face. Somehow, it felt right.

"We both believed in the same thing—justice—we just went about it in different ways. Words and ideas printed in black ink on crisp white paper make the concept seem so straightforward. But I'm realizing the world isn't as black and white as I thought. The law does look different on the ground than it does in a courtroom." He learned it in the harshest possible manner.

"I'll never stop fighting for justice, Dan, and I'll do it by being the best of both of us." He wore a lopsided smiled as he gazed toward the heavens above. "If you watch over me, I won't complain."

One thing still gnawed at him. "Why didn't you trust me, Dan? Why didn't you tell me about Cole and your deal with the Comanche? If my train had arrived safely in Colby, would you have confided in me?"

A light breeze whooshing between the canyon walls served as the only answer. The Lone Ranger straightened to his full height and donned his hat. "I promise I'll look after Rebecca and Danny. She may love both of us, Dan, but she was always in love with you."

With a wistful sigh, he added, "Goodbye, Dan."

The spirit horse approached just then and nuzzled his chest. He rubbed the animal's neck. "I think it's about time you had a proper name, boy."

Neighing, the steed bowed its head in agreement. "If you did bring me back from the other side, thank you." He glanced around to make certain they were alone. If Tonto could talk to the spirit horse, so could the spirit walker. "Can you fly?"

"Don't be stupid." Tonto materialized from the shadows astride his paint horse. "I make noise, yet white man does not hear. Must work on that, Kemosabe."

The Ranger snorted and swung onto the saddle. Intense eyes studied him.

"Relaxed. Weight lifted from shoulders."

"Yes," the Ranger replied, feeling more at ease than he had in years. He glanced at the graves. "I found some measure of peace."

Tonto raised his eyebrows, indicating the crow perched atop his head.

The Ranger exhaled heavily. Best to get it over with. Tonto, possessing the stubbornness of a mule, wouldn't let the subject drop. "The bird was right. I needed to say goodbye to my brother."

Tonto smiled. "Now we go after Cavendish's gang."

"You don't have a quarrel with them. Why are you suddenly so eager to round them up?"

"Justice is what we seek, Kemosabe."

"Is that your only reason?"

"For twenty-six years, I hunt wendigos. Job is done. Must keep busy somehow. Besides," Tonto said, a smirk playing on his lips. He produced a duck foot. "I have gift for Frank."

"I'm sure he'll like it," the Ranger replied, his soft laugh catching on the wind. They would bring the remaining members of the gang to justice. The honorable Texas Rangers buried in the canyon deserved as much. "There is one more thing I have to do first."

Before they rode out, Tonto paused to feed his bird. "I must know, Kemosabe. When you shot the gun from Cole's hand, where were you aiming?"

The Lone Ranger grinned. "The gun in his hand."

"Good shot, Kemosabe. Spirit Horse only pretending to be stupid."

* * *

The brass band commenced playing. For all the bandages and dented instruments, they sounded rather pleasant. Mr. Lewis Habberman III, leaning heavily on his new cane, relished in the spectacle as he hobbled to the center of the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen, as the chairman of the Transcontinental Railroad, I'd like to express our gratitude to this masked man, this lone ranger."

Applause greeted the guest of honor crossing the stage.

The crowd wasn't as large as it was for the golden spike ceremony. Railroad laborers and local townspeople worked to clean the mess left by the masked man. Newspapermen moved onto the next big story, adventurers chased new thrills and families who journeyed to witness the momentous event returned home. Soldiers weren't guarding trains. Still, enough curious onlookers from miles around came to see the mysterious stranger after hearing wild tales.

Habberman motioned for an assistant to bring him the gift. "A small token of our thanks," he announced, loud enough for all to hear as he handed the polished wood box to its recipient.

More applause emanated from the spectators, accompanied by murmurs of appreciation.

In a hushed voice, the railroad magnate added, "There will be plenty more where that came from. Always nice to have a lawman on the side of progress. Time to take off the mask, son."

The gleam in Habberman's eyes reaffirmed the Ranger's earlier decision. He refused to be a pawn for another tycoon like Cole who sought to control the law for his own gain. Opening the lid, he suppressed a grin. Tonto traded birdseed for the pocket watch so John Reid couldn't trade the mask for it. He snapped the lid closed.

"Not yet." He whistled for Silver; the crowd parted to make way for the white stallion. A determined stride carried the masked man to the edge of the stage where he jumped into the saddle.

The Lone Ranger had a destiny to fulfill.

**Hi-Yo, Silver! Away!**


End file.
